


violent violets

by pro_se



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, One Shot, Sexual Tension, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-07-10 23:21:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15959720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pro_se/pseuds/pro_se
Summary: You'd make an excellent bodyguard for the Grandmaster if it weren't for your manners.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: the audacity of this man to appear in my dreams

Crawford Starrick walks with the assurance of a man who does not believe in haste. Hands clasped behind his back, he listens to a dither over a small insurrection in a faraway country. It would be wise to counsel with the bank, then unleash a directive considering the foreign state of affairs for as long as it benefited the Order.

“Grandmaster, someone was waiting in your office and would not leave without--”

As they approach his office, there is a loud, heavy sound as if someone had violently rammed the door. A few guardsmen draw pistols and stand at the ready.

The door slowly swings open, and the members of the British Rite stare at the white-robed, hooded figure pinned to the door with the short sword through their stomach. The assassin was most definitely dead, and you step forward, wiping a bit of blood from your chin.

“Apologies for the inconvenience, lads,” you huff, and reclaim your sword. The assassin collapses with a pitiful _thump!_ “I’ll have the body removed at once. Sorry about the carpet.” Without waiting for a response, you crouch and hoist the dead weight over your shoulder, then move past the silent Templars. Blood drips and stains your jacket, but it’s just a part of the job.

A whistle follows your footsteps, then you turn the corner and disappear.

Starrick raises his eyebrows. “And who was that, might I ask?” he asks calmly.

“Uh, Grandmaster, you’ll find her conscription on your desk,” someone stammers, “Supposedly, she’s Maxwell Roth’s finest-- not a Blighter, sir, but just a very well trained bodyguard.”

He examines the ornate door, ruined with sword marks. A quick glance into his office shows more blood stains on the walls and floor, and sure enough, a pool of blood was beginning to collect in the middle of the hand-woven carpet. “No manners, whatsoever,” he murmurs. “Just like Roth.”

* * *

You stretch your arms and recline at the far edge of the stage front, tilting your head up to peer at the ceiling. It’s the only way to look at Maxwell Roth as he storms back and forth along the theater catwalk, rubbing his gloved hands in a dastardly fashion. “Aren’t you _bored_ ?” he roars down below. “Don’t you want to _raze_ the city like _nothing_ has ever done before?”

“When? Have you set a date for setting London ablaze?”

Roth grips the railing and leans forward, his tall frame nearly bent in half as he squints at you. “This is all just a _joke_ to you,” he grumbles.

“Maxwell, I would never make fun of you,” you reply sweetly. A huge smile splits across his face, tugging at his disfigured scars into something chaotic, something handsome. You wouldn’t be lounging in the Alhambra with a madman if you didn’t have a soft spot for said madman. “But I think the Grandmaster would have an opinion if his office was destroyed.”

Mention of the Templar Order sets Roth on another ranted pace, swaying the catwalk in an alarming manner. “Starrick,” he growls in that ruined, wonderful voice, “Mister Starrick. It might be time to _reconsider_ our employment under Mister Starrick, darling.”

You roll your eyes. “I’ve only just started this week!”

“Yes, yes, but you work for _me_ , so I will reconsider _my_ employment.”

“Maxwell, it may not matter in a few months. Attaway, Thorne, Twopenny, and Elliotson have all fallen to the Assassins,” you tell him, ticking the names off your fingers. “ Starrick may be on his way. And you may be targeted, too.”

“ _Nonsense_. I’ve already sent a letter to one of the assassins.”

“What? Why?”

Roth seizes one of the pulley ropes and slices a counterweight, allowing him to drop quickly and safely to the stage. He stumbles forward in a cloud of dust as a sack of sand crashes somewhere backstage. He walks over to you and extends a hand. He is wiry and gaunt, but Maxwell Roth is known for training the best Blighters in London.

He tugs you to your feet. Clasping your shoulders, he presses a bristling kiss against your forehead. “Not to worry. I have a _job_ for you, darling, and it’s to _distract_ Mister Starrick while I’m having a _grand_ time with Jacob Frye.”

“Be safe, Maxwell,” you chide gently. You pat his red cravat affectionately and he chuckles.

“Starrick is going to have such a _fun_ time with you.”


	2. Chapter 2

When he says your name, his voice is cold and indifferent and makes you  _ grin  _ like an idiot.

“Neither a Blighter,” Starrick murmurs, flicking through your papers, “nor Templar. So what are you?”

“I’m good with a sword.”

“Yes, I remember that you did an exemplary job dispatching the assassin. Roth sent you to my office on a morning that coincided with an attempt against my life. Out of the kindness of his heart?” The tone of his voice is perfectly clear: he does not, for one moment, believe that you are here with good intentions. Starrick arches an eyebrow. “For the interest of the Order? What say you?”

“I’d say that he has your best interest in mind. I would add, Mister Starrick, the person in charge of your safety should be sacked and sent to the nearest factory to redistribute his skills.”

Reaching into your pocket, you toss out one, two, three,  _ four  _ silver rings with at least ten unique keys.

“I took these while I scouted the building ten minutes ago. There’s yet to be an alarm raised. This key leads to the armory, that goes to the archives-- you know, where all the important Templar artifacts are-- and  _ this  _ one leads to the secret study room that you sleep in when it’s too late to return home--”

“Roth taught you how to pickpocket like a common thief?”

You smile again. “Oh, no. I won these fair and square in a fist fight. Sent a handful of your lads to the Lambeth Asylum. I s’pose I’ll be replacing their shifts in the meantime.”

The dark-haired man sees only now that your knuckles are bloodied and bruised, and there’s a beginning of a purple bruise on your throat as if someone tried to strangle you. You’re a walking vision of violence. Blunt and crude with your words. A derisive taunt on your lips. Very much like Roth. But these rebellious, disorderly things can be stamped out easily. It takes time, patience…

You sink in one of the chairs closer to the door, and bring your legs up on the cushion, ignoring the way he scowls at your boots on the upholstery, your disinterest to manners, the  _ audacity _ of your  _ attitude _ \-- And then, you unsheath a dagger from your boots and start to balance it on the chair arm, sinking and digging and carving little notches in the fine rosewood. You pay little attention to the blade’s antics and cant your gaze to the ceiling, quietly humming a ballad.

_ Discipline. _

Ah, there’s an  _ idea _ , there’s a little curl of inspiration like wisps of smoke in a new campfire. Crawford Starrick turns and sits in his chair, apparently accepting your presence in the room. Time and time again, he studies you with those pale, blue eyes and entertains himself with this  _ idea _ .

The Grandmaster will make you his new  _ project _ .

Anticipation twists like a hot iron poker in the center of his chest, and he takes a moment to reclaim his senses.  _ Business, first. Delinquent bodyguard, second.  _ Starrick has meetings throughout the day with various, well-dressed individuals. They warily regard the woman in men’s trousers sitting in the corner and cradling a  _ fucking _ dagger, but Starrick draws their attention to the more immediate threat in the room.

Around late afternoon, a nervous looking gentleman enters and swiftly delivers a silver platter with teacups and a pot of boiling water. There’s a small pile of wood shavings around your chair by this time, and you smile graciously at the steward as he departs.

“Tea, madam?” Starrick asks coolly, opening a box of imported tea leaves. Soft herbal aromas and warm spices waft as you approach, casually tossing the knife on his writing desk. His moustache twitches at the insolence. But he chooses to ignore it and slides a saucer over to you.

He selects an unfamiliar brand and lets the leaves steep in the water. Barely a minute passes before you reach for the teapot, and Starrick grabs your wrist. His grip is like a vise. Your shoulders tense instantly at the attack-- no, the  _ warning _ . “Patience,” he says firmly. “It takes at least eight minutes to allow the full flavor.”

You huff and lean against the desk.

The Templar spies a pair of black suspenders beneath your coat.

Eight minutes pass in silence.

The tea tastes all right.

You thank him for the drink, set down your cup, and move to pick up your knife-- except,  _ except  _ it’s in Starrick’s hands and he examines the silver sheen and serrated edge near the hilt. He carefully thumbs across the tip, and a harsh voice grinds in the back of your thoughts--

_ Starrick is going to have such a fun time with you. _

You reach across the desk but he leans  _ just _ out of range. “Mister Starrick,” you say, adopting some semblance of concern in your voice. “You must be careful with that.”

“You wrongly assume that I am not trained to fight.”

“I would never say such. Even skilled soldiers must be vigilant of their blades.”

The Grandmaster extends the dagger with its handle towards you. He doesn’t bother to look at you. “So take it. Be brave, be  _ whatever  _ you must to take it from me.” You’re not sure if he means to play a game of cat-and-mouse or if his pride allows no room for sounding sincere.

You grasp the handle slowly, then slide it out of his grip. Your hesitation is his prize, but then you drop your gaze to his hand. “Like I said, Mister Starrick, you must be careful. It looks like you’ve nicked yourself.” A small drop of crimson red on his glove, and it spreads and grows along the white fabric.

He tugs off the glove and examines the cut. “No matter,” he says, and he  _ licks  _ the blood trickling down his pale skin. The sudden, intimate gesture from a man who reeks of authority, pristine from his haircut to the polished cross around his neck, catches you off guard. Then his gaze purposefully connect with yours.

The challenge in his eyes  _ burns _ like winter frost and that flick of his tongue  _ scorches _ your expectations because  _ shit _ , you thought protecting Crawford Starrick was going to be a  _ boring  _ job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't know about this folks starrick might be too kinky for me to handle


End file.
